


Let It Pass Lightly And O'er

by Cerberusia



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Oviparous Trolls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 17:43:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4314426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerberusia/pseuds/Cerberusia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dad told you to meet him in his rooms, you thought he'd be alone. Instead, while Dad sits straight-backed in one of his sitting room armchairs, in the chair opposite slouches a tall, thin, gangly troll with familiar horns.</p>
<p>For a prompt which asked for an AU with oviparous trolls, in which <i>'highbloods use lowbloods, usually against their will, for child-bearing'</i> and <i>'[a]s long as [a] highblood manages to get in a lowblood's pants, consensually or not, they basically own them'.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Let It Pass Lightly And O'er

When Dad told you to meet him in his rooms, you thought he'd be alone.

Instead, while Dad sits straight-backed in one of his sitting room armchairs, in the chair opposite slouches a tall, thin, gangly troll with familiar horns.

"Gamzee!" you say, startled. Dad frowns - he doesn't like you addressing a highblood without his title. But Gamzee grins lazily, because he insisted on you calling him just that. And he does technically outrank Dad, which is what you'll say when Dad grumbles at you for it after he's left.

"Yo, motherfucker," he says; Dad winces just a little.

"You didn't say, you were coming to visit," you say, smiling at Gamzee in return. Gamzee and you are agemates and friends, but this past sweep he's been so busy with taking his place in the Church that you haven't seen him in person the whole time, only via video calls on Trollian.

"Nah, I thought it could be a motherfucking surprise, you know?"

"Well, it was!" you say truthfully.

"I see you two have a lot to catch up on," says Dad, standing up. "Highblood," he says, bowing to Gamzee; Gamzee just waves. "Tavros," he says to you, touching your shoulder as gently as he is able with his prodigious STRENGTH. You smile at him briefly. He's pretty stuffy sometimes, but he does his best to show that he loves you. He leaves you and Gamzee in his sitting room.

You sit in his vacated seat and wait for Gamzee to get his thoughts in order. You've got some cool stuff to tell him about the new Fiduspawn expansion, but Dad does keep telling you that you have to let higher castes take priority in conversation.

"Tavbro," he says after a minute, "there any motherfucker up in your quadrants right now?"

"Uh, no, nobody." You fidget, suddenly uncomfortable. "There's a blueblood, uh, one of our agemates, who keeps, uh, flirting with me, I think? But I don't, uh, like her, or, uh, hate her. She just makes me kind of, uh, uncomfortable."

Gamzee is frowning. You didn't think he _could_ frown. But he's seemed different over Trollian lately: he's been given an increasing amount of responsibility in the Church, and you guess it's making him grow up at last.

"This that motherfucking spidersis?" he asks.

"Yeah, uh, Vriska. But it's fine," you assure him, "she only drops in when her sire does and obviously that's, uh, pretty rare."

Gamzee still doesn't look content.

"Man, your sire was motherfucking right," he says, which makes no sense to you.

"...About us, uh, having a lot to catch up on?" you try. But Gamzee doesn't seem to be listening. Abruptly, he stands up. Holy shit, is it just the angle, or do his horns almost brush the ceiling? How can he have grown that much in a sweep?

In one stride he covers the distance between his chair and yours. He looms for a second, but before you can scramble to your feet, he drops to his knees. He has to sort of fold up, like an ironing board. His horns point at your chin. He's close enough that you can see where his adult pigment is starting to bleed purple into his eyes.

"Bro," he says, his voice gone gravelly, "she's not getting her grubby motherfucking mitts on you."

"Uh," you say, "that's very, uh, sweet of you, but really, it's fine. You, uh, can stand up now." But Gamzee doesn't stand up. Instead, he grasps your knees, pulls them apart and shuffles between them. You yelp, but he only puts his big hands on your thighs, looks up at you, and says:

"I'm up and gonna make sure of it."

An unpleasant suspicion creeps into your mind. Gamzee has, um, admired you for a couple of sweeps now, and hasn't been shy about making this admiration known. But he's never been pushy about it, not like Vriska; just occasionally brought up the possibility of sLoPpY mAkEoUtS, bRo :o) and not taken it amiss when you dodged the question.

But Gamzee is acting strange. He's still loose-limbed and friendly, a little goofy, but his eyes are focussed and his facepaint a little more sinister than you remember. He'd said that they were weaning him off sopor, and you could tell that it made him a little irritable over Trollian, but you hadn't anticipated what Gamzee might be like when he wasn't at least half-stoned. And it's not bad! It's just really, um, intense.

"Tavbro," says Gamzee, and presses his cheek to your thigh. _Way_ too intense. Oh God, this _is_ bad.

"Gamzee," you try, but he isn't listening.

"Gonna look after you, bro," he assures you. His big, cool hands squeeze your thighs. Oh God, this really is heading where you were afraid it was heading. "Don't you worry, I'm gonna up and take care at you."

"Gamzee, no," you plead, "I don't need to be taken care of!"

"Of course you do, my motherfucker." His voice is low, intimate. "Of course you do." He turns his head to kiss the inside of your thigh through your jeans. You want to shove him away, but you're frightened. Where has your wrigglerhood friend gone?

Gamzee stands up, unfolding. You get up too, determined to stand your ground, but that just makes it easier for him to pull you to him. You're not a small troll, but Gamzee must be seven and a half feet now, and he's as skinny as ever but now you see the wiry muscle in his thin arms. You're much broader, but his grip renders you immobile.

His eyes are on your face, watching you with an expression of such tenderness that you feel embarrassed. You wish you could return the sentiment; you wish he would let go of you. Being loved by a highblood is an honour, they say, but they always seem to take it for granted that you'll love them in return.

"Tav," he says tenderly, and leans down to kiss you. It must be hell on his neck, you think distantly.

You stop being afraid for a few moments to just feel really bad. He kisses you very gently, like perhaps he's never done it before, his claws rubbing little circles into your arms, and he's obviously so into you - how did you not realise how deep this ran? - and you just feel so awkward you could die. Oh God, you're going to have to break this guy's heart.

You struggle in his loose grasp, turning your face away and peeling his claws off your arms. This, it turns out, is a bad move: Gamzee seizes you in one arm and crushes you to his body - God, he really is bony - and catches your chin in his free hand to pull you back into a kiss. He kisses you fiercely, with a passion you've only ever seen in vidgrubs. You're trapped in his embrace. Struggling only makes him hold you tighter; you stop before it turns painful.

Some primal, animal instinct tells you that you won't get out of this. Gamzee is determined to protect you - which would be fine, really, a brownblood needs highblood protectors, except that you know what that protection is going to entail.

It's not like you've never thought about it: you're a big, non-violent lowblood, perfect breeding stock. You were always going to spend a lot of your life carrying clutches. But you didn't think it would happen yet - you've not yet reached your adult size, you're only eight sweeps, and you're just not ready. You've seen highbloods looking you over, assessing your fitness for carrying, but Dad always keeps you close: all potential offers for your, uh, _hand_ will have to go through him. He only left because he thought you were safe with Gamzee. _You_ thought you were safe with Gamzee.

Gamzee's slick tongue forces its way into your mouth. You bite; he makes a little crooning sound in the back of his throat, and the hand on your cheek slides around to cradle the back of your head. He doesn't let you pull away, but holds your head in place while he tenderly licks your hard palate. It's your first kiss, and he's ever so tender, and you're scared. You know what he's leading up to.

He drags his mouth from yours to kiss your jaw, your neck.

"Gamzee, no," you say when your mouth is freed, but Gamzee just makes soothing noises. He lets go of you, but only to reach down between you to open your jeans and pull them down about your knees along with your underwear. Exposed, you start to struggle again, but Gamzee picks you up and shooshes you like a fussing grub when you yelp and protest.

"Nothing to motherfucking worry about, bro," he says as he lays you down on the blue and brown rug in your father's sitting room and crawls over you, trapping your arms between your chests. His hair hangs in his face; he wipes it out of his eyes and smiles at you. His hands slip up under your t-shirt and he leans in to kiss you again. You try to keep your mouth closed, but his tongue slips in anyway.

He fingers your grubscars curiously, tongue sweeping lazily in and out of your mouth. He acts like you've got all the time in the world, like you're just shy and if he's gentle you'll come round.

In doing so, he's left vulnerable parts unprotected. You abruptly bring up your knees and aim for his groin: _that_ should put him off for long enough for you to make your escape. It's not a nice thing to do to a friend, and a really bad thing to do to a highblood, but if you can talk it out via Trollian, it'll be fine. Gamzee's the forgiving sort.

But when your knees collide with something, Gamzee just sighs and goes still - then squirms, getting your right knee right where he wants it. You feel a slight indentation; he's grinding the entrance of his nook against your knee.

"Mm, Tavbro," he says lowly in your ear, "you're teasing me."

This is so far from what you meant to do that you are momentarily struck speechless. Gamzee presses his cheek to yours and makes soft noises as he rocks his hips.

This frees your trapped hands. With a sense of futility, you reach up, get a good grip on his hair and _yank_.

Predictably, Gamzee groans, closing his eyes and letting you pull his head back. _Fuck_. Your knee's still up, and he keeps pressing back against it. This has all gone horribly wrong.

Gamzee frees himself from your grasp easily and sits up. His breathing isn't quite steady. He picks up your tightly-closed legs and whips your trousers and underwear off entirely, then sets his hands on your knees and gently, inexorably forces them apart. Your hands lie limp by your sides: you're not strong enough to shift him, and trying to hurt him will only be taken as encouragement.

"Stop it!" you plead, feeling the creeping thread of hysteria in your gut. Gamzee shooshes you again and settles himself between your wide-open legs. You carefully don't look at the front of his sweatpants: you don't want to know.

He leans back to take off his own t-shirt, revealing a skinny, wiry chest. You can still see more of his ribs than is healthy, but his shoulders are broader and something about his thin torso suggests power. He leans back in to kiss you and again his large, cold hands inch up your shirt. He kisses you fiercely and pinches your grubscars; you yelp at this rough treatment and Gamzee just does it again. The worst thing is that the pinching feels good: you're frightened, but you're not made of stone.

He pulls back at last, a wild cast to his face. "Tavbro," he says in a pleading tone, "bro, I _can't_." And he yanks down his sweatpants.

You close your eyes instinctively: you don't want to see what you know is there, a wet purple bulge waiting to thrust inside you and tear you apart.

After a second, when Gamzee goes " _Nn,_ " but nothing happens, you cautiously open them again.

Gamzee's bulge isn't out and waving at you, or about to enter your nook, you realise. It's tucked back, only a little of it still visible outside Gamzee's own nook. He's fucking himself with it vigorously, hips pumping back and forth, hands braced on his thighs. His eyes are closed and he's shuddering. He looks like something out of a really good pailvid, and you feel your groin pulse.

Then he opens his eyes and looks at you, and he's just Gamzee again, inappropriately undressed and looming over you.

"Bro," he says, and grabs at his bulge to pull it out of his nook. There's a lot of it. He closes his eyes and bites his lip as he pulls it all out, wet and thrashing.

Then he presses the cold, tapering tip to your nook, and you remember how much you don't want this. You struggle, but your thighs are spread either side of Gamzee's and kicking him in the back doesn't have any effect. His eyes are open and he's looking at your nook, where you're about to be joined. You try to slap him away, but he catches your wrists in one long-fingered hand and pins them above your head.

His bulge squirms inside your nook, opening you up. You're barely wet, but he's dripping, so the slide is horribly easy. You toss your head from side to side as much as your horns allow and groan inarticulate protests. It aches, being opened up like this.

Gamzee releases your hands and falls forward over you again, kissing you hungrily. Pained, you grab at his shoulders and dig in your claws. His bulge just continues to slide into you, undulating inside you. You hate that your body just lets him in, that any part of you makes it easy for him to violate you. From this moment on, he'll all but own you. Your own bulge unsheathes, not from arousal but because there isn't room for it inside you.

His bulge churns inside you, spastic lashing at the walls of your nook. It feels like he could be squeezing more of his bulge in, but there's already so much inside you, you're full of his bulge, surely he can't fit in any more. You feel stuffed with it, a heavy writhing mass in your abdomen.

Gamzee makes noises in the back of his throat, little groans of pleasure muffled by your mouth. You take little hitching breaths in discomfort over his bulge's relentless assault on your nook, less rhythmical than frenzied. The force of his thrashing rocks you back and forth.

His bulge is cold, but you're starting to feel warm inside, and you hate it. You _don't_ like it, you _don't_ like the what his body is doing to your body, but you are built for this, and Gamzee's uncoordinated motions are starting to feel good. You clench without meaning to, and Gamzee's fingers seize your hair.

"Tavbro," he says, muffled by your lips. It's nauseatingly tender. He loves you so much, and he's hurting you to show it - even though it's not hurting any more, it's making your bulge twitch and curl, little sparks running up your spread thighs. You'd rather it still hurt. This just means that everyone was right when they told you you'd enjoy it when it happened to you - but if you're enjoying it, why are you crying? You are helpless and furious. You tear at Gamzee's shoulders; he gasps and undulates.

Finally, you manage to work your hands in between your bodies and _shove_ Gamzee in the chest with all the strength and leverage you can muster in this position. The force of the blow sends him reeling back onto his haunches, a confused expression on his face. His bulge wrenches unpleasantly in you.

You make to get your feet under you and his bulge out of you - but he's too quick. He grabs your wrists again, more roughly this time, and pins them back above your head. He's tall enough now that he can do that and still have your chests and faces far apart. Have you made him angry at last? If you have, what will he do? Your stomach lurches. Gamzee is a stranger to you now.

But Gamzee only hushes you again. "Don't you go getting up and fussed, my motherfucker," he tells you. He says it as slowly and as sweetly as he normally would, but something creeps around the edge of his tone, creeping into your pan: an oily trickle of fear. You still. Gamzee breathes heavily.

Gently, his bulge is reintroduced to your nook, making your sore entrance ache. But inside you're still wet and ready, and every inch that squirms into you feels like it's filling an empty space. Where earlier it felt like you might tear or burst from being crammed full of bulge, now the sensation of being filled just feels good. You know it's only biological reflex, but you're disgusted with yourself anyway.

When Gamzee leans in to kiss you, you let him open your mouth. You can't give him anything he hasn't already taken. He kisses you deeply, passionately, while his cold bulge sets up a steady rhythm in your nook - accidentally, you think. It squirms and thrashes inside you, the tip flicking back and forth just above your seedflap. You can hear the wet squelching noises him fucking you makes, and you know that some of the material is yours. It all feels so good that even with the rug chafing your shoulderblades - they've become oddly sensitive in the past few perigees - you're drifting into that pleasurable haze that marks the build-up to a _really_ good orgasm. That you don't want to come from this is immaterial: your body knows what it's made for. Your bulge is curling in the air, searching for something to latch onto.

Your arms are still above your head, held in Gamzee's rough grip. You thrash from side to side, not thinking about escape, just wanting some kind of relief from the pressure within you, the unbearable roll of his bulge inside you. You can't tell what he's thinking; you can't even tell what you're thinking, the words all jumbled up inside your pan. You are still confused that he's hurting you. Gamzee has never hurt you before.

This is what comes of being friends with highbloods, you suppose, just like you were warned. There are good reasons why lowbloods typically go around in packs. But Dad's a highblood, and you've got friends online all up and down the spectrum. There's never been a problem before: you trust your friends. But Gamzee has broken that trust, reverting to what everyone tells you is typical highblood nature, taking what he wants because he can, because it's owed to him.

His mouth covers yours, warm and wet and eager, just like he might have tried to kiss you before, if he'd ever tried; but the way he holds you down and mercilessly presses his bulge into you is something you never would have thought your sweet, dopey friend capable of.

He continues to make little noises into your mouth, little half-vocalised sighs; it's intimate in a way that's both stimulating and embarrassing. His bulge thrashes deep inside you, touching places you didn't know were there for the touching.

"No," you say into his mouth without meaning to, "no, please." Gamzee kisses you more fiercely, bulge moving erratically in you. He's trying to find your seedflap, you realise with a stab of horror.

"No, Gamzee," you try to say, but your words are swallowed by his kiss, licking and biting at your lips in distracted frenzy.

He abruptly sits up, shuddering a little. He holds your wrists with one hand, as the long, cool fingers of the other wrap around your bulge, which immediately tries to curl around them. You grit your teeth. You want to say that you're only unsheathed because there's no room for your bulge inside you with Gamzee in your nook, but you can feel how slickly it coils around Gamzee's hand.

Gamzee leans forward again and reaches back. Your bulge twists in his grasp, seeking - _there_.

You drop your head to the floor and moan as your bulge slips smoothly up Gamzee's nook. Gamzee holds himself very still above you and makes small, guttural noises, his thighs trembling, his bulge still curling restlessly in you. The twin sensations set off sparks in your abdomen, make your legs twitch. You wish they didn't.

It has to happen for him to climax, and it feels just as good as Karkat's trashy romance novels promised, but you don't want to be any more complicit in your own violation. But your bulge knows what to do, and it does it without your permission.

Above you, Gamzee has entirely given himself over. His skinny hips make small circles as your bulge writhes inside him - he's cooler inside than you, and wet, so wet he must have been dripping down his thighs before you plugged him up. His bulge lashes inside you, so good, so sweet it makes your nerves sing. He's let go of your wrists entirely, but all you can do is clutch fitfully at his shoulders as his nook contracts around your bulge and his bulge continues to batter your nook, seeking, seeking -

Inside you, something gives. You yelp at the shocking intimacy - your seedflap! Gamzee chokes on something that might be _motherfucker_ and then it's happening, it's _happening_ , fluid gushing into you - and as it does you feel orgasm building within you, all that tension coalescing in your groin, your bulge and nook throbbing, everything rising higher, higher -

You cry out, inarticulate, as climax rips through you, is ripped _from_ you by Gamzee's clenching, fluttering nook. You pour out your material in spurts, each one drawing a choked gasp from Gamzee, who continues to fill you with his. You are full of his bulge and his material, and your only consolation is that he's also full of yours. Your eyes have closed of their own accord; you're happy not to see his face.

It seems to go on forever, this agonising pleasure pulsing through you, opening your mouth, making you jerk and shake in Gamzee's arms. At last you collapse, all your muscles relaxing at once - except for one, deep inside you, which remains tightly clenched.

Slowly, Gamzee's bulge slithers out of you, though the weight in your abdomen keeps you from feeling empty. You feel yourself leaking your own material. You can't gather the energy to lift your head to see what he's done to you. You feel very, very tired.

Gamzee crawls off you and lies at your side, one leg over yours, gently kissing your ears and horns and cheeks. He's all but glowing.

"Told you, Tavbro," he says quietly, smiling dopily at you. You realise that the gush of liquid on your thigh is your own material, spilling out of Gamzee's nook. He gives a little shiver and smiles wider. You close your eyes and try not to think while his claws run gently up and down your arm.

**Author's Note:**

> For the homesmut prompt:
> 
> _AU in which the mothergrub and lusii died out/never existed. Trolls had to reproduce by carrying their own young, spitting out around 2-5 eggs. To keep the highblood (blue to violet) population strong, highbloods use lowbloods, usually against their will, for child-bearing. As long as the highblood manages to get in a lowblood's pants, consensually or not, they basically own them. Cue Gamzee, doesn't matter if he's on sopor or sober, infatuated with Tavros. Gamzee manages to get him alone. You go from there._  
>  Bonus if Darkleer is Tav's father and helped arrange the whole thing because he wants Tavros with a purple.  
> 


End file.
